


Here Be Dragons

by CrystalGazer



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alchemy, Credence Barebone Deserves Better, Falling In Love, Fix-It, Good Original Percival Graves, Internalized Homophobia, International Wizarding relations, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Queer Themes, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-14 14:54:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9187112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystalGazer/pseuds/CrystalGazer
Summary: “I’m sorry, Credence. But you must understand, greater wizards than you and I have been manipulated to do his bidding,” no, no Newt doesn’t understand. This is Credence’s fault. He knew that Mr. Graves was not a good man, he knew that whatever he needed the child for would not be right. But he still had let Mr. Graves touch his face, his throat and kissed his lips. Worn his mark like a whore would have worn a gift from a John. If Mr. Graves, no Grindelwald had offered, Credence would have let himself be bedded in a heartbeat. The thought makes him sick with anger and shame.He would have sold Modesty’s soul - no, the fate of the world - to the devil and for what? Because he thought someone could love him? Ma had always told him that people like him was incapable of love. Why should Grindelwald have been any different?How could anyone love an abomination like him?“Credence, the Mr. Graves you meet was not-” he expands as far as his body will go and presses against the glass jar with all his might, “Credence, please listen to me! You have to calm down, Credence. Credence!” the glass cracks dangerously and Newt stops.





	1. Chapter 1

Credence is dead; or at least to begin with he is. There is very little he understands of what happened between being torn to pieces by the burning lights and waking up again. What he understands now is that he had been dead, irrevocably and terrifying and then he had been alive again, just as irrevocable and terrifying as the other.

His body is gone, he thinks. Before he at least had a sense of it, but now there is nothing but shadowy dust and awareness; just enough awareness to know that _this is not what living feels like_.

Instead of seeing in colors he sees in _dead_ and _alive_. A spectrum of - there is no other way to explain it - essences that glimmers like small flames or like roaring auroras. But it's not the only thing. He can also sense magic now. It falls from the sky like snow. It swelters from the ground and moves through the air as if carried by a secret current. Whatever it is he senses, it seems just as fundamental and inexorable as time itself.

In this form, he navigates by the stars and the pull of the North pole and hundreds of other senses, he had never even known existed before now. It feels like when he died, his body and with it his five senses had perished. Now it’s only the dust and a hundred - maybe even a thousand - other senses that remains.

* * *

  
There are only two things he is certain of in this state. One, he is still in New York and two, he is dying.

Like this, he can barely hold the bleak tendrils together and he almost loses himself when he tries to rise into the air. This is nothing like when he had run rampant. There, he had felt as if he could have swallowed the world in his darkness. Now it feels like even the slightest breeze would make him crumble like ash. There is so little of him left that he feels every atom of his being quiver with misery.

He knows death is not far behind him.

* * *

 

He hides in dark alleyways, he hides behind trash-cans and tries to make himself as small as possible. Nothing comes near him. The pigeons and rats know better than to go near the dark, writhing mass of agony and people doesn’t see him anymore.

 

* * *

   
In the end he loses so much of himself he can’t even sense where he is. After he woke up, it had been as if everything was filtered through broken glass. The things he senses is now out of proportion and out of shape. And he loses more; there is no longer the weight of stars or the pull of the North pole to follow. He can’t even tell if he is upside down or if everything spinning around, if he is losing control or falling...  
 

* * *

  
He floats now.

Still and unthinking as more and more awareness bleeds from his body. Maybe this is God’s punishment, God’s own brand of hell made exclusively for him. For you are dust, And to dust you shall return, he remembers reading in the bible. It feels like a lifetime ago where he thought salvation was still something he deserved. But he knows better now. He was born an abomination, an invert filled to the brim with wickedness, and now the time has come to let the rest of his filthy soul spill into the gutter, to become nothing but dust again-

Suddenly, an orb of pure magic hovers into his line of sensation, controlled by something just as magical but alive.

“There you are, Credence. We have been looking for you,” he sees only parts of him; alive, magical and most importantly _notathreatmaybesafe_. Credence has sensed him before, but he can’t be sure. The orb quivers above him and then another being - _magical_ and _alive_ \- moves just outside his line of sensation and Credence feels a cold throb of fear pass through him.

“Thank goodness, we found you, Credence” oh, but he recognizes that presence and for a short moment his vision focuses enough for him to see Tina Goldstein, soot-covered and tear-stained but there.

“I know it hurts, I know it's bad right now, but I need you to come with us right now. Bad men are coming and if we don't leave...” her voice cracks with fear as if she cannot imagine it either.

Something warm and solid reaches out for him. His first instinct is to lash out, to ruin anything that could hurt him but he’s too weak. Instead, he slithers around it, curls in between its empty spaces and leeches of its warmth. A hand, something almost human informs him and it's only in that moment he realizes how cold, he is - how starved for human contact he is - but then he is in the air.

“We have to go now. They’re not far behind us,” suddenly he’s being put inside some kind of woolly space, still tightly-wrapped around Tina’s hand.

“Credence, whatever happens, remember I got you,” the _safewarmsoft_ space squeezes reassuringly around him and then something enormous and terrible - like the wrath of God - rushes towards him from all sides, crushing him until everything is so tight, he’ll combust, he’ll die again-

And then the terrifying weight lets go. In this form he doesn’t need to breathe, but still he expands as far as he can. It makes him feel a little more balanced, but not enough to keep track of time. At least he can keep track of the pulse beating behind Tina’s skin.

Thud thud thud- _thud_ - _thudthudthudthud_.

Her heartbeat doesn’t slow down, it rises and rises and rises until Credence thinks she might be dying. That her heart would simply give out and she would fall with him still in her hands and there would be nothing he could do.

But Credence understands why she is afraid.

Wherever they are now, is magical and filled with so much life that Credence can barely comprehend it. It’s like they has entered the belly of some great, living beast. He senses the same presence as the ones who destroyed him with the orbs of searing light, but with Miss Goldensteins hand wrapped around him, it doesn’t frighten nearly as much as it should.

A long time passes. Sometimes there is silence, sometimes there is too much of everything to even think, to hold himself grounded. But there is always movement and the vibration of Tina’s heartbeat. Too fast but still strong and good.

And then something odd happens.

They go from someplace slight and inanimate (like a box or something) to a space inside the container, so enormous that Credence can barely wrap his head around it. His senses are all in a jumble because there is too much _magic_ and _alive_ inside a too small and _dead_ space. It's not people like the place before, he is at least sure of that.

It doesn’t make any sense and for the first time in forever, Credence wishes that he had his body so he could see the magical wonder he is being carried into with his own eyes.

“I will come back as soon as I can.” suddenly he is pulled away from the safe, woolly space and placed inside a container of sorts. “Newt will take care of you until I get back. Be safe, Credence,” and then she disappears in a burst of magic that takes with it all traces of her existence.

“I’ll do anything in my power to help, Credence,” a voice - Newt - mumbles almost intelligible right next to him. “But first, let me try something,” Credence isn’t sure what's going on but he can’t really sense much of anything besides himself.

“Here, how’s that?” a drop of something magic falls into the glass and lands in him. He catches it by pure instinct and lets himself roll it trough his dust. It feels like some kind of liquid, but then he breathes in the smell of musky earth and warm. It’s so monumental- being able to do that - that he doesn’t notice soaking it up. At least not until he begins feeling woozy. It’s like when he couldn’t keep his body together, but in a good way.

“Interesting. Even if you aren’t in a corporeal form your, hrmh... Well, your body is still receptive towards potions, even if it takes some time before any notable reaction sets in. Maybe-”

Credence falls asleep.

* * *

  
After that the difference between being awake and being asleep becomes... faint. Sometimes he dreams and other times he’s awake. Newt talks a lot whether he’s awake or not and Credence doesn’t listen. Other times he simply is. He floats in some sort of suspended state of misery. Aware enough to feel it, but not enough to escape it.

Sometimes he can’t tell those states apart.

The only thing he knows for sure is that he is no longer dying. Newt keeps dripping drops of magic into the glass and even if Credence doesn’t want to, his body still absorbs them. Sometimes Credence becomes woozy and falls asleep, just like the first time. A real, healthy sleep, he hasn’t had in ages. Those drops he begins to crave badly, so badly he begins to vibrate with need whenever he smells it. He knows the implication of this need; he still remembers the junkies roaming the streets of New York and dying there as well.

But mostly the drops of magic don’t do anything to him. He keeps on living in this state of not-quite-existing and hopes for... something.

  
Time passes, but he can’t tell how long. Could be days, weeks, maybe even months. But he’s getting better, at least he’s certain of that. There is still no sign of his body, but sometimes Credence swears he feels it, like a phantom pain as if his body is curled up inside the dust, no longer a part of him but simply a bundle of dead flesh slowly decaying inside of him.

One day Newt mumbles something about “Phoenix tears”, drops a speck of clean, salty, but incredibly potent magic into Credence’s cluster of dust and suddenly he is blinded; by the light, by sound and smell and the brilliant red that fills every segment of his line of sight.

_Sight?_

Newt is standing in front of him - all unruly red hair and awkward posture - with an enormous, red bird resting besides him.

“Thank you, Fawkes. Send my regards to Albus and safe travels.” the bird spreads is wings and takes flight. A lid in the roof springs open and the bird disappears trough it in a storm of feathers and sparks.

“Well, that went well, don’t you think?”

Credence spreads as far as he can go in answer, still reeling from the sudden influx of sensations. Credence isn’t sure if the other man understands, but then Newt's eyes seem to light up - and oh....

“I’m glad,” Newt says, the corner of his mouth quirking awkwardly in a smile and suddenly things don’t seem so hopeless anymore.

It's only after the Phoenix tears that Credence discovers that Newt has been reading to him this entire time. He reads from the bible but only the good parts. Nothing about eternal damnation and sin. And slowly- as if to ease Credence into the idea - Newt begins to read from books about magic with odd names like _Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration, An Anthology of Eighteenth Century Charms_ and _Flesh-Eating Trees of the World_.

Credence has never hated his Ma more than the moment he realized what she had taken from him, because suddenly magic isn’t making your neighbors crops rot, eating children or making men impotent. It has nothing to do with a devils or witch mark, nothing to to with the evil eye and wicked souls.

It is power, pure and simple. Something as natural as the strength of one's arms or the sharpness of ones wit. Some is born with a lot, some with very little and some use them to hurt those around them, others use it to help others.

Or at least that’s what Credence thinks.

As an extension of Newts lectures about magic, Newt also tries to explain how they are currently inside a suitcase (“Undetectable-Extension Charm, very sophisticated magic,”) and how he had fitted an _entire zoo inside of it_. Its at times like these that Credence would like a body, if only to tell Newt how reckless he is.

Well, at least it explains the magical presence all around him. Especially the one that has been near him constantly for the past few days.

“Credence, this is Fionulla. I rescued her a couple of days ago from a group of poachers. They would probably have sold as a pet or used her hair for illegal wandmaking. Poor girl lost a leg due to the abuse, just before I could rescue her.”

Apparently a Wampus is like a cat, but with eight legs (or in this case seven legs), enormous ears and eerily intelligent yellow eyes. It's nice not to be the only monstrous thing in the room for once and when it - Finoulla curls around his glass jar and purrs, he feels safe and anchored. It’s... good, this odd and easy acceptance, so Credence doesn’t protest when she licks his glass or tries to squeeze her snout into the jar to smell, almost killing him with her _horrible breath_.

But she’s not the only magical creatures that visit him. There’s a silver monkey with huge, sad eyes that always brings Credence things to put into his jar and the green-stick-thingy with permanent residency in Newt’s pocket (Pickett he remembers New calling it). One day there's a mooncalf with a broken leg; another day, it's an outbreak of Mackled Malaclaw and on one memorable occasion, there's even a goddamn unicorn.

Credence sees them all and wants for nothing more than to reach out, to touch and learn more of this brave, new world. But he can't, not yet at least.

* * *

  
One day Mr. Scamander sits down beside him, casts a veil of powerful magic around the glass jar and then proceeds to flay him open, spill his guts out so Credence can see - truly - how much he fucked up the day he trusted Mr. Graves

Newt tells him who he really is. He tells Credence about a man named Grindelwald and how his extremism and hatred had spread like hell-fire trough an already ashen and divided Europe. How he had gained followers - no an army - of witches and wizards, no longer willing to hide. In the grand scheme Credence would have been a means to an end. A weapon of unimaginable destruction that would force the exposure of the magical community and ultimately, force the world at Grindelwalds feet.

Credence trashes against the glass with all his might. If he could just stop the stream of words - no, if he could just reach out through the glass to _crush his jaw, turn his mouth into a vortex of wrecked teeth and bleeding gums_ -

The same violence that made him kill his Ma, kill Mr. Shaw rushes through him and he almost loses himself.

“I’m sorry, Credence. But you must understand, greater wizards than you and I have been manipulated to do his bidding,” no, no Newt doesn’t understand. This is Credence’s fault. He knew that Mr. Graves was not a good man, he knew that whatever he needed the child for would not be right. But he still had let Mr. Graves touch his face, his throat and kissed his lips. Worn his mark like a whore would have worn a gift from a John. If Mr. Graves, no Grindelwald had offered, Credence would have let himself be bedded in a heartbeat. The thought makes him sick with anger and shame.

He would have sold Modesty’s soul - no, the fate of the world - to the devil and for what? Because he thought someone could love him? Ma had always told him that people like him was incapable of love. Why should Grindelwald have been any different?

How could anyone love an abomination like him?

“Credence, the Mr. Graves you meet was not-” he expands as far as his body will go and presses against the glass jar with all his might, “Credence, please listen to me! You have to calm down, Credence. Credence!” the glass cracks dangerously and Newt stops.

“I’m sorry, Credence. I shouldn’t have upset you like this. But keeping you in the dark will not help you. This is your world now and you need to know these kind of things. Ignoring this, the pain will only work for a while. You’ll be numb, yes, but when you finally feel again... It’ll be worse than before, ” it’s like someone has drenched him with ice water and Credence stops fighting. Some part of him understands, but he can’t- not yet.

Credence hides under the lid and when its calm again, he lets his mind drift.

* * *

  
After that catastrophe Newt doesn’t try to tell him more about what happened or what’s going on. But he doesn’t stop talking either. He still reads from the bible, from books about magic, sometimes even newspapers and Credence is so pathetically grateful. He didn’t know what he would have done if Newt had shunned him completely.

But still, every day becomes more and more of a struggle. He isn’t fading like before but for every day that passes it feels like he is drifting further and further away from ever becoming... Well, whole again.

“I think I know how to help you, Credence,“ Newt is sitting in front of him, wringing his hands bloodless.

Credence swirls towards him and presses himself against the glass to tell Newt yes I’m listening.

“There’s an old friend of mine that says he can help. He was the one that send Fawkes, the phoenix that helped you regain your senses. His brilliant, absolutely brilliant and potentially the greatest wizard of our times. If there is someone with the abilities to help it’ll be him.”

 _Yes, yes, oh, please_ , Credence cannot say it - not yet - but at least he can show it now.

After that they travel for two weeks (Newt has begun telling him the dates now that his sense of time has returned). On the tenth day, Newt returns to the suitcase, bleeding sluggishly and covered in dirt, but alive. Credences fears and night terrors keep him awake when Newt leaves the suitcase again and doesn't come back. It's not until three days later, when Newt returns - whole and safe - that Credence feels like he can breathe again.

“We’re here now,” Newt mumbles and lifts Credence into the air. He climbs the ladder with Credence securely in his hand, opens the lid in the roof and suddenly they are shrouded in moonlight and complete silence. Above them the sky is alive with magic and starlight stretching endlessly in all directions. Beneath their feet a seemingly fields of lavender turns to rolling, green hills and in the distance, snow-covered mountains looms below a too big yellow moon.

  
Credence twirls and twirls around himself so he doesn’t miss a thing. It has never occurred to him that the sky above them could look so vast or that the stars could be this brilliant. Newt is carrying him down a gravel path lined with white-flowered trees in full bloom. By the end of the path, there’s a house and-

  
There is a man too. Credence didn’t notice him before, but Newt is walking towards him with purpose so he isn’t afraid. The man stands beneath the shadow of a white-flowered tree and the first thing Credence sees is kind, blue eyes twinkling with good humor behind a pair of gold-rimmed glass. Tall and lean like a beanpole with longest beard and hair, Credence has ever seen on anyone. And he's wearing... high heeled boots and a flask-green cape?  
  
But Credence isn't fooled by the stranger's odd appearance. Even if he looks rather loony and harmless, Credence sees his magic roaring around him with light radiant enough to rival that of the moon. This man is without a shadow of doubt the most powerful being, Credence has ever been near.

When they're close enough to be heard, the man steps away from the shadows and spreads his arms as if welcoming someone long lost home.

”Credence, you wonderful boy, you brave, brave man,” _he's lying, he doesn't know what I've done_ , creeps trough his mind but the words still feels like a benediction. As if someone had cracked Credence open and washed his sins away with holy water.

“Albus, I can’t say how grateful I’m for this. You meeting us here, showing us their location and all...”

  
“Think nothing of it, Newt. When you wrote to me, I was only happy to help and so was Nicolas and Pernelle when I explained the situation,” Credence bristles by the mention of new strangers. Maybe he shouldn’t have trusted Newt after all. But instead of tearing the glass jar apart, he lets himself be carried towards the house.

“How was your journey here? Not too troublesome, I hope.”

“Well, I ran into some trouble by the border to France. A small skirmish with a faction of Gr-" abruptly Newt interrupts himself, glancing down at Credence, “- a faction of Gillerts fanatics. Had to trek back and lay low in Cuneo for a couple of days,”

  
“I'm sorry to hear. But at least the two of you made it here, safe and sound," suddenly the stranger smiles, "Oh, could I tempt you with some Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans? I picked them up in Honeydukes before leaving Hogwarts," a small pouch filled with colorful beans appears in his hands. Newt considers them carefully before popping a blue one into his mouth with a look of utter concentration.  
  
Credence does not understand this interaction at all.

“Bouillabaisse,” Newt says, completely unrelated to anything.

“Oh, how appropriate,” the stranger says, smiling before popping a brown bean into his mouth. He immediately turns green. “Oh, goodness. Vomit.”

They have to stop so the stranger  can spit into a bush and clean his mouth with a quick spell. Credence really likes Newt, but he isn't sure if trusts his judgment anymore. If this odd man is one of the greatest wizards of their time, Credence can't imagine how the rest of the lot is faring.

The conversation only turns serious again when they continue towards the house.

“Albus, I’m running out of options. I don’t know how much longer I can sustain him like this. He isn’t fading anymore, but he hasn’t shown any signs of being able to return a corporeal form and- ”

“We’re traversing into unknown lands. Terra incognito as the Muggels would say. ” that... That was the least helpful comment so far and if Credence had been in possession of a voice, he would probably have said something terribly rude.

“I know. And I’ve tried everything but the Obscurus doesn’t behave like any I’ve encountered or read about before. It's a parasite but it still clings to a dying host... Even if it means its own demise.”

“Hrm, interesting.” the strange man sounds like someone who has just been handed the last piece to a puzzle. Credence doesn't like it, mostly because _he’s_ the puzzle being discussed. 

“How about Fawkes tears, then?”

“It worked like a charm. Or at least I think so. Until then he had been mostly dormant, but I think the tears might have returned some of his senses. Hearing and sight - definitively - but I’m not so certain about the rest...” by now they are close enough to the house for Credence to see the outline of two silhouettes standing in the light of an open door. A man and woman - magical and alive - but something's wrong with their life signature. Instead of being like a flame - burning brilliantly, but short-lived - It’s more of an unending well that can be drawn from until...

Well, until they would live forever.

“Credence, I want you to meet a very _old_ and dear friend of mine,” the man - Albus - sounds like someone who has just made the greatest joke in the history of mankind

“Credence, meet Nicolas and Pernelle Flamel.”


	2. The Man in the Flask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have you any idea what you’re talking about, Albus! What you’re referring to is forbidden, the darkest and most cruel magic I can think of! It has been attempted before, yes, but the results have been catastrophic. You cannot create a soul from alchemy, even if you’re in possession of the Stones-”
> 
> “That is not what I’m asking of you, Pernelle. We will not be creating artificial life, nor some poor imitation of a soul. It is simply a matter of recreating the body Credence lost. I will not let history repeat itself, not if I have a say in it,” by the end of his speech, Albus’s voice turns unyielding and all fight seems to leave Mr. Flamel. She sighs. 
> 
> “Oh, Albus... I know what happened to Ariana but you cannot-”
> 
> “Can it be done, Pernelle? It is all I am asking,”

The Flamels doesn't look like any elderly couple, Credence has ever seen before. They are just as eccentric dressed as Albus with long robes and odd hats in an assortment of impossible colors. Mrs. Flamel is just as tall and narrow as Mr. Flamel is short and stout. None of them look very proper. Mrs. Flamel’s hair is a dirty gray, unkempt and frizzy as if she has been standing under a cauldron all day. She doesn't look very much like those women at the church. They were always very concerned with their hair and if they were proper and lady-like enough. Mrs. Flamel doesn’t seem to concern herself with such things. She’s even wearing __pants__  under her robes.

Mr. Flamel is like Albus; too long hair and weird-looking clothes. The only difference is the glimpse of a _ _tattoo__ Credence catches from beneath the edges of his cuffs. Brilliant red feathers and a beak peeks out from under his sleeves before hastily retreating as if it's shy. Credence isn't sure if it's the tattoo itself or the fact that it _moves_ that carries the most shock-value 

When they enter the living room - Credence still too mind-boggled by the tattoo to really pay attention to his surroundings - Mr. Flamel fetches tea and some odd shell-shaped cakes, like any other other elderly couple would have done. The only difference is that he does so with a wave of his hand and suddenly the living room comes alive with movement; teacups, plates loaded with those shell-shaped cakes and an errant tea pot (that almost hits Albus in the back of his head) comes flying in the room.  

  
It might just be the most amazing demonstration of magic Credence has ever seen. Who would have thought something as destructive and terrifying as magic could be used to fetch tea?        
  
Newt places him on a table before settling into a comfortable chair. Credence only listens to the first few minutes of their conversation. They are mostly exchanging pleasantries and talking about people Credence doesn’t know about ( _ _My, Is Galatea Merrythought still teaching?__ ).

   
He also loses interest because there are so many other, much more interesting things to see in the Flamel’s living room.

  
There is a great, old grandfather clock but instead of showing the time, it has twelve hands and instead of numbers, there’s planets moving around the edge. There’s a book shaking and growling furiously in the bookcase and Credence swears he can hear another book whispering to him. The paintings on the wall __moves.__ It's as if the Flamel's has somehow placed a bunch a people into the frames. They're animated, alive as if they at any moment could simply step out of their painting and resumte their daiily life. A woman in one of them even has a short but pleasant-sounding conversation with Albus in french, but mostly the others whisper and points at him.         
  
Suddenly - without him noticing - all eyes in the room turn to him.    

  
“If it would be alright with you, Credence we would like to conduct some examinations,” for some reason Mrs. Flamel face is perceptual strict as if she is constantly seconds away from giving you the scolding of a lifetime.      

“Nothing invasive, just something to get a better sense of your condition,” Mr. Flamel hastily adds with a reassuring smile. He looks like the kind of man, who has done nothing but smile his entire life, so Credence feel safe enough to consent.     

They start out with spells. Its terrifying being on the wrong end of a wand again, but Credence holds still as chills and heat rushes through him. He even holds still when one of the spells makes him turn liquid and when another has aching pain shoot through him. After that they make him crawl into a round-bottomed glass flask and filling it with gas. Again, nothing happens, but they must be getting something out of it. Mrs. Flamel is furiously taking notes as Mr. Flamel, Albus and Newt eagerly discuss the results.       

  
It’s not until Mr. Flamel makes a fine layer of powder settle over him that anything truly palpable happens.  

  
Credence can’t see what they are seeing and he doesn’t need to. Their expressions are more than enough. Mr. Flamels face looks bloodless; the skin around Mr. Flamels eyes turns tight and Newt... Newt just looks tired as if someone has snuffed the hope right out of him. Dumbledore is the only one that doesn’t seem surprised.   

  
“There’s... There’s nothing left. Only specks of his body remain,” Mr. Flamel whispers. Some part of Credence has known this for a long time, but faced with the undeniable truth?

   
It’s fucking terrifying.

  
He shakes and shakes with fear, until Newt puts him into his jar again and squeezes reassuringly around his body. While he tries to soothe Credence, Newt begins to explain.    

  
“I have theorized that maybe it is not the Obscurus that kills the host, but the procedure of extraction. That it somehow applies enough trauma to the host that they cannot survive. But I’m not sure how to counter the effect or even what kind of trauma we’re dealing with here. Is it physical of psychological. Or is it both? ”

__  
Maybe its spiritual__ , Credence thinks to himself, numb with apprehension and terror.

  
“Mr. Schamander, I can see where you’re coming from but as you can see there is nothing to __extract__ ,” Mrs. Flamel waves a hand towards him and Credence curls further in on himself.  

 

“Well, there has to be something. I’ve been communicating with him for months and I can assure you, there’s __still__  a living conciseness trapped in there-”

 

Suddenly, Albus rises from his comfortable chair and the room falls silent. When he speaks, he does so with great care and looking at directly at Credence.

 

“It is in my opinion that you will perish, if we attempt to remove the Obscurus, Credence,” he knew this, he __knew,__  but still he flinches as if Albus has hit him, “- but it is also in my opinion that the Obscurus is no longer a threat to you.”

 

“ _ _What__ ,” Credence wholeheartedly agrees with Newt, “Dumbeldore with all due respect, this is __not__  the time for holding back information-”

  
“Now, now, don’t be upset, Newt. In the beginning this theory was simply a hunch, nothing palpable. I knew that this was no ordinary case and therefore I needed more to go on that your description in your letters before throwing postulates left and right,”

   
“Well, Albus I think now would be the time to ‘throw postulates left and right’ as you put it, ” lesser men than Albus would probably have withered under Mrs. Flamel gaze but Albus simply smiles, almost indulgently and continues.  

  
“Credence’s obscurus has lived longer than any other in recorded history. It has lived and devoured enormous amounts of magic. And as Newt already has informed me, it’s behavior over the past few months has been rather... Peculiar. In conclusion, it’s a magical anomaly. Now, even with Newts interference and expertise, you should not have survived an attack of that caliber, Credence. Not even in your Obscurus form and definitively not considering how you went without magical care for almost an entire month. This made me wonder; why did you survive such a viscous attack and endure long enough for Newt to find you? What factor was present with you that wasn’t there with the countless other cases? All of them which perished before the age of ten.”  When he continues he turns to towards Credence, looking at him with his calculating eyes, like two great lights in the fog .       

“I think when you almost died it saved you. It mended what broke with itself and thus changed the fundamental aspects of your relationship. It is no longer a parasitic connection, but a symbioses. You may still be two separate entities, but you're bound by something much stronger than blood. And therefore cannot be removed without killing both of you,”

   
“But how can that be possible?”  

   
“Love.” Albus whispers with a reverence usually reserved for God,“Or at least some manifestation of it,”

   
Credence cannot see how the creature that made him kill his Ma and Mr. Shaw, that made him lay waste to half of New York could possibly love him. That is, until he remembers the mornings when he would pretend to be in pain because his wounds had healed during the night. Or sometimes when the hunger and cold became too much to bear, but then he would be filled with such a wonderful warm and fuzzy feeling that he would forget about his suffering. Credence remembers a hundred other instances like that and maybe Albus is not wrong.  

   
At that time he had thought it was his guardian angel, but maybe it hadn’t been. Maybe it had been this... __Obscurus__ showing its own distorted sense of love.            

   
“Impossible.” Mr. Flamel exclaims, breaking Credence’s line of thought, “An Obscurus is not sentient and is therefore not capable of human emotion,”

   
“All magical beings are born with a conciseness.” Newt pipes up, looking as if someone has handed him the Holy Grail, “It is simply different from the human experience, that’s all. Ma-maybe Credence’s Obscurus has had enough time to mature, to... Well, __evolve__  into a being both capable of emotion, of thought and rationalization. It could be a side-effect off all that magic it consumed and living beyond it’s life-expectancy. Of course, that must be it!”

   
“Exactly, Newt. I knew you of all people would understand,”  

  
“Then what do you propose would be the best course of action, Albus. You were very vague in your letters, but I understand the Stones must be of some importance,” Albus barely has time to answer before Mrs. Flamel speaks up.  

   
“You want us to create a homonculus,” Credence doesn’t know what means, but whatever it is, it makes everyone fall silent. Mrs. Flamel’s tone is trapped somewhere between realization and disbelief, brown eyes unreadable and Credence bristles; suddenly the room has grown stifling with tension.

   
Dumbledore bows his head, neither confirming or denying but it’s enough for Mrs. Flamel to pace in front of him, anger carved into every tense line of her body. She looks terrifying.   

  
“Have you any idea what you’re talking about, Albus! What you’re referring to is forbidden, the darkest and most cruel magic I can think of! It has been attempted before, yes, but the results have been __catastrophic__. You __cannot__  create a soul from alchemy, even __if__  you’re in possession of the Stones-”

  
“That is not what I’m asking of you, Pernelle. We will not be creating artificial life, nor some poor imitation of a soul. It is simply a matter of recreating the body Credence lost. I will not let history repeat itself, not if I have a say in it,” by the end of his speech, Albus’s voice turns unyielding and all fight seems to leave Mr. Flamel. She sighs.     

  
“Oh, Albus... I know what happened to Ariana but you cannot-”

  
“Can it be done, Pernelle? It is all I am asking,” Mrs. Flamel stays silent - thinking - but then Mr. Flamel speaks up from behind her.   

  
“Dumbledore, you know full well what you’re asking of us. Give us time to think, to research.” suddenly he turns to face Credence, speaking directly to him. “I’m sorry, my boy. We’ll not give you false hope by saying it can be done, but we’ll try everything in our power to return you to your body,”   

  
“I ask for nothing more. And I’m certain that if Credence was able, he would ”  so he twirls and twirls around in his glass, to show .   He cannot believe! These strangers have agreed to help him and for the first time in  months, he feels a sliver of hope - pink, soft and so very fragile - unfold inside of him.

  
“You’re most welcome to stay here, Albus, Mr. Schamander.” Albus smiles and Newt shuffles on his feet, looking incredibly uncomfortable.   

  
“Ah, beg your pardon, but I must return to my suitcase. The - uh - Hippocampus, you see. Hasn’t been fed yet and...”   

  
“Of course,” Mr. Flamel says kindly, “Then I must bid you goodnight. I’m afraid the hours as grown late and we’re not as spirited as we once were,”       

   
Credence is still shaking with excitement as Newt takes him back to the suitcase.  

 

* * *

 

The next morning Albus comes down into the suitcase and - put very mildly - bowls right over Newts polite attempts at evading breakfast with the Flamels. As Newt still stands - too flabbergasted to make much of a fuss - Albus winks mischievously at Credence before scooping him up and herding them all on their way.

   
Mr. and Mrs. Flamel are in the middle of a discussion, when they arrive.

  
“You have always been more of a theoretical alchemist than a practical one. Never lifted a cauldron in her life, I tell you,” Mr Flamels says, snickering into his beard as Albus joins in and suddenly Credence sees why they are such good friends.

   
They both have terrible humor.    

 

“This sounds like a __very__ tiresome discussion we had three-hundred years ago, dear. Despite what you think, it is possible to study abstract entities in alchemy with respect to their intrinsic nature, and not be concerned with how they manifest in the real world,” her tone is scalding but still, Mr. Flamel kisses her hand which makes the tight expression around her mouth soften.   

 

“I know, dearest. It was after all you who decoded Abra-Melin’s grimoire,” she huffs but seems to accept his apology.       

  
Mrs. Flamel keeps spilling blue berry marmalade on her research papers and Mr. Flamel and Albus are discussing something about ‘the scientific aspects of human transfiguration’ which sounds intriguing but also very disturbing. Curiously enough, Newt always seems to have a teacup or a piece of bread strategically placed in his mouth, which makes polite conversation impossible.     

   
“Why are you still in your jar, Credence?” Mrs. Flamel hasn’t raised her head from  her research since her discussion with her husband, so there goes a moment before Credence discovers he's being talked to.     
 

“Oh, he hasn’t really left it since I put him there-” Newt tries to say but is promptly ignored.    

   
“I thought it was only for a travel-related purpose. Oh, well,” she mumbles before reaching over, opening the lid to his jar and then proceeds to turn it upside down. Credence is too baffled to do anything and ends up falling clumsily onto the table. It feels terribly rude to just lie in the middle of all the food, so Credence hastily slinks over to a free corner on the table.      
 

“Now, doesn’t that feel much better? Here, have some tea.” with a flick of her wrist, a cup fills with steaming liquid and slides in front of him. When he hesitates, she continues.             
 

“If you can ingest potions, you can certainly drink tea,” Credence is too dumbfounded to do anything but to uncertainly put a shadowy tendril into his cup. The tea is tangy and a little too flowery, but it seems to satisfy Mrs. Flamel enough for her to return to her research.     

   
The rest of the breakfast passes peacefully and with no more incidents. Credence gets another cup of tea and Albus hands him the culture section of a newspaper called __The Daily Prophet__  after he’s done reading it. In it there’s odd articles like __Is Muggle literature worth reading?, Combative talk radio hosts; from Hengist Diggle to Araminta Elphick__ and __Love at first bite: The unlikely tale of a vampire__. He can barely spell trough the headlines and he’s probably missing a lot of contextual clues, but it might still be the most amazing thing he's ever read.      

   
Breakfast is cleaned away with a simple spell but before Credence has time to wonder about what he’s supposed to to with himself, Mr. Flamel turns to him.   

   
“Why don’t you go for a walk, Credence. This research session is going to be plenty of boring. Our gardens and the surrounding area are free for you to explore,” Mr. Flamel is smiling, but Credence can still hear the poorly-veiled excuse to get him away. Its not like he could be of help anyway so he flies trough the window and outside.

 

* * *

 

The days pass slow and lazy now and for the first time he can remember, he doesn’t need to do __anything__. There’s no pamphlet to distribute, no soup to make for all the hungry orphans of New York and definitively no Ma working his hands raw and his back rawer.

 

But there’s no more playing football and knock down ginger with the other orphans. No Widow Markson, who needs help with her groceries and someone to discuss the message of bible with. No more Eugene Roberts, the grocer-boy who always sneaked in a piece of candy with his goods and who kissed him behind the dumpsters. And there’s no Modesty either and that might be the worst of all. He imagines her dead; he imagines her alone in New York and worse, he imagines what she must to __do__  to survive those unforgiving streets.

 

Suddenly he hates the sun, the domesticity of the Flamels household and the second chance he has been given because the one that deserves it all of this is not _him_.          


* * *

  
In the beginning he flies around the gardens curiously exploring, then aimlessly when every stone has been turned (and one Mandrake accidentally uprooted). Other times, he tests the limits of his flying abilities. He flies up, up and up and twirls trough the sky when he becomes brave enough. Well, he does so until one day where he almost drifts away with a particular strong wind.     

 

Activities are limited, when you’re not in possession of a body (and opposable thumbs), so he ends up flying aimlessly trough the gardens and the forrest. After a week he takes to floating through the house or lying dejectedly on different surfaces.

 

That is, until Mrs. Flamel grows tired of it.       

  
“Oh, quit moping around, you’re making the milk go sour. Here, let me get you a book,” she gives him a book called __Illuminations: A Study in the History of Magical Photography__. It mostly consists of pictures that - just like the portraits in the living room - moves inside their frames, going about doing their business like they were not - in fact - a photograph. They don't really seem to be _aware_ that they're being watched, so Credence doesn't feel to bad about almost doing nothing but watching the pictures for the next few days. There a pictures of beasts and some of them he recognizes from Newt's suitcase. Winged horses in England, giant sea monsters to enormous to even fathom roaming the seas and _dragons_  (who would have thought?). Sometimes there were pictures of other countires; of villiages settled just beneath a looming snow-covered mountain, strange tempels with even stranger people and pictures of bustling cities so unlike New York city, it seems impossible that the two could coexist. There were people preforming the strangest, most breathtaking feast of maigc and even small things, like a child making a feather lift from the ground.  

He reads and reads and suddenly he realizes that _if_ he regains his body and  _if_ he doesn't die trying, all of this will be his. This whole, new world of magic will belong to him just as much as it does to Newt, to Albus and the Flamels. It would be free for him to explore to become part of. Every waking hour is haunted by the images and a sick desperation to part of this brave, new world. To see all of these things with his own eyes and to finally wield maigc on his own with no one else forcing his hand. 

  
He wishes now - more than ever - that the experiment will succeed. 

* * *

   
They don’t really include him in their research, but sometimes Mrs. Flamel comes bursting into the room and has a low and urgent conversation with whoever is in there. Credence is always trying hard not to seem like he’s listening in but he doesn’t really get anything useful out of it. Too much of it is too technical for him to understand and the rest doesn’t make any sense without context. One thing he understands is that something called the Philosophers Stone is of a great importance.  

It’s not until he hands Newt a piece of paper with a clumsily written __FILOSUFERS STONE?__ that he gets any useful information. Newt sits with a stunned looked on his face (if Credence can turn buildings to dust and throw people about, then he can use a goddamn __pen__ ) but Mrs. Flamel laughs, slaps Newts back harder than maybe necessary before she explains.

It's only then Credence realizes that he has been living under the roof of  people who are almost six hundred years. And the perhaps greatest wizards in history. Throughtly humbeld, he sits back and lets them do their work.            

 

* * *

 

Two weeks pass before anything crucial happens.

Mrs. Flamel has slept next to none for the past three days and has barely eaten anything besides some burned toast and an inhumane amount of coffee. Albus has probably been able to see Credence worrying and informs him that the closer to a breakthrough she is, the more maniac her behavior becomes.    

It all culminates one evening at the dinner table. Albus and Mr. Flamel are engaged in a conversation about the uses of dragon blood as a household remedy, Newt is studiously avoiding conversation (as always) and Mrs. Flamel seems to have been staring at the same word for almost a quarter for an hour.

That is, until she jumps up from the chair as if stung and says in surprisingly calm and reasonable voice:  

“Mr. Scamander, can you obtain a dragon uterus and its blood. Preferably that of a Chinese Fireball,“ Newt pales as if she had just asked for his first born child, while Albus and Mr. Flamel rises from their chairs, cheering as if they where at a major sport event and not - in fact - in the Flamel’s dinning room.

 

After that the house becomes a war zone; books, research papers and all sorts of a alchemical equipment flies through the air as Mrs. Flamel explains her plan.

 

“We have to wait for the next new moon which gives us approximately-” she quickly checks the old grandfather clock in the living room, “- twenty-one days and eleven hours before the process must be set in motion,”   

 

“If I begin now, I may have the sunestone and carmot ready for the next new moon. But it’ll be next to impossible with this time limit,” Mr. Flamel adds. 

 

“I have a contact in Zinjiang and if that doesn’t work out, I’ll try Albania,” Newt is grabbing papers out of the air and quickly reading them, before realising them again.  

 

“Good, you can use our fireplace then,” Newt nods, a look of pure determination on his face as he summons his suitcase. It's only then that Credence realizes that he’s leaving.

  
”I know, Credence but I’ll back a quickly as humanely possible, I promise you!” some of Credence distress must be showing, because he smiles and squeezes a black tendril as if it had been a hand. He stops before the fireplace and seems to realize something.    

 

“Won’t the Floo Network Authorty know when an unregistered, foreigner travels out of the country via your fireplace,” no one seems to react to his concern, so he continues,“-which is extremely illegal _ _,__ might I add.”

 

“Ah, do not worry yourself with such trivial matters,” Albus is the face of serenity, even when discussing potentially breaking the law, ”For their own protection, the French Council of Ministers granted Pernelle and Nicolas sovereignty on their own plot of land. They act as an independent state and is therefore not under the obligation of the Transnational Transportation Legislation,”

 

“We have an... understanding with the Floo Network Autohorty. We share information about who enters our land freely and they don’t bother us. Well, in this case it will be more of a selective sharing. Dumbledore is an old friend. They won’t be suspicious of increased traveling as long as you only travel from his fireplace,”    

 

“Well, as long as you think it’s safe. I’m still on MACUSAS watchlist, you see.” Newt grasps a handful of glittering powder from an urn above the fireplace. It’s only then that Dumbledore steps forward.   

 

“Ah, I must return too, I’m afraid. It was after all a rather impromptu trip and I’m sure my students must have forgotten all about their elemental transfiguration,” Albus says wistfully before making his farewells with Mr. and Mrs. Flamel. He then reaches for the same glittering powder and then goes to stand in front of the fireplace.       

 

“When I see you again, it will hopefully be to reunite you with your body, my boy,” Credence waves his goodbye as Albus throws the powder into the fire and the fireplace comes to live in a flare of emerald fire. The emerald flames are so big that the fireplace can barely contain it, but still Albus steps right into it, saying “Albus Dumbledore’s office,” and vanishes.

   
Credence is still staring in amazement when Newt steps up.

  
“Until next time, Credence,” he smiles crookedly and disappears.

 

For a long moment Credence simply stares at the flames, feeling all sorts of terrible things. Abandonment and loneliness mostly, even if he __knows__ that they will both return.

 

“Come now, Credence we have work to do,” Mr. Nicolas exclaims and suddenly he doesn’t feel so lonely after all.

 

* * *

   
Mr. And Mrs. Flamel works tirelessly, trough day and night with little to no sleep. Nicolas slaves away on making the mystical elements and Mrs. Flamel goes away for a few days on an errant. When she comes back, it’s with so many sealed containers that when she suddenly appears in the living room (scaring the wit out of Credence), she accidentally smashes the coffee-table with a particular heavy wooden box.

“Whoops,” she says - without a of remorse - before making the coffee-table repair itself with a simple swipe of her wand. She turns towards Credence, her gray hair an unholy mess and a mad glint in her eyes.

“Behold-" she says with a grand flourish, "-all the elements necessary in the composition of the human body. Before you lies the incomplete body of man, reduced to its smallest components. Carbon, hydrogen, cobalt iodine and selenium,” whenever she mentions an element she points towards a crater. Credence is too baffeled to really undertsand what is going on. When she seems satisfied with naming obscure elements, she turns to Credence and concludes,

“Now we must simply wait for Nicolas finishing the alchemical elements and for Newts return.”

So Credence settles and waits.

*

Two days before the next new moon, Credence is playing with the flock of bowtruckels residing in the willow tree, when he suddenly feels a flare of magic inside the house. He shoots down from his branch, when he recognizes the presence and hurries inside the house. The house smells like and fire and dust, so Credence _know_ s __what to expect but still the presence of Albus takes a burden of his shoulder, he didn't even _know_ was there. 

  
“Thank you, Pernelle, and I'm sorry for the ” Albus is standing inside the living room, dusting ash of his shoulder as he greets Mrs. Flamel.  
  


"Black?" Mrs. Flamel asks, completely unrelated but somehow Albus catches her meaning. 

 

“Well, yes. Phineas was quite cross with me when I asked for vacation again, you see. Argued that it’s not even a whole month ago-”  
  


“That old geezer can stuff it,” Credence would have blanched at her rudeness, but he’s too excited to actually take offense.  
  


“Please, that’s my boss you’re addressing, Pernelle,”  
  


“He calls the Muggle students for Mudbloods, instead of bothering with their names. That more than qualifies as being an old geezer. Though if I wanted to call him something more appropriate, it would be a limp-dicked assh-”  
  


“Ah, Credence,” Albus quickly interferes, “There you are. I wondered how long it would take for you to sense my presence,” he smiles and takes the black tendril offered in a handshake.

“Newt was just behind me. Ah, which reminds me-” Albus steps away from the fireplace, just in time to avoid being hit with a wooden box, closely followed by Newt.

“Ah, hello, Mrs Flamel, Credence. You look well,” he brushes a lay of glimmering dust of his shoulder and Credence hears a faint sneeze from Newt’s breast-pocket.

“I’ve acquired the dragon womb and drained the blood after we decapitated her. Poor thing,” Newt looks pale and his eyes look oddly glazed. “My contact in Zinjiang refused to sell me a dragon for our prupose, but my contact in Albania was not so... kind,” Albus clasps his shoulder in consolation and murmurs something to him. It is then that Mr. Flamel appears at the door, hands covered in soot and some odd, phosphorescent powder.

“Ah, Mr. Schamander, welcome back. And Albus, just the man I needed! Could you assist me in amalgamating the magnet and the green tutia? Always was tricky with only two hands,”

“Of course, Nicolas,”

“Is there anything I can be assist with?” Newt asks, brushing the last ash out of his hair

“Yes, yes. Why don’t you go into the garden and find the white. We need the sap, you see. If you have some insects on you, the bowtruckels will guide you to the most potent branch. I assume you’re familiar with bowtruckels?” for once Newt seems relieved to finally be on familiar ground and he hurries out off into the gardens.

“Now, Albus let’s get to work,” the two disapears into the basement and suddenly the living room turns eerily silent.

“Come, Credence.” Mrs. Flamel says and Credence has never seen her this soft and tired before. The usual strictness has mellowed into something completely different, much more approachable. “We should sleep. I’m sure Nicolas left enough of that potion for Dreamless Sleep for two,”

That night he sleeps, yes, but even with the potion, he’s haunted my nightmares. Diffuse and horrific nightmares where it’s not a whole, healthy body the emerges from his shadow, but a bundle of rotten flesh, pale as the belly of a fish and writhing in agony. He dreams of his last moments before he’s put out of his misery. Ff their faces looking down on him in his last moment. 

Waking up is both a blessing and a burden; his own brand of Judgment day has arrived and he can’t help but to think that whatever outcome today brings - either being reborn or experiencing his worst nightmare in the flesh - it’ll be a reflection of his actions. Does he deserve salvation or is there only eternal damnation for him?

Even he doesn’t know.

When he floats into the kitchen, Mr. Flamel, Albus and Newt are sitting around the table and each nursing a cup of tea. The curtains are drawn and the room is shrouded in a comforting darkness. It looks as if they’re all tending a hangover rather than a sleepless night. Mr. Flamel is in the middle of a nervous rant

“We almost ruined the sunstone, but luckily I was able to stabilize it, though I’m not sure what impact it will have on-”

“Go get some sleep, my dear. It’ll be of no use to over-analyze,” Mrs. Flamel cleans away their cups with a spell, “You all look practically dead on your feet. If we’re to accomplish tonights task, we’ll need you at your brightest. I’ll tend to the rest of the preparations and wake you when the time is in. Now shoo,” it’s with some grumbling and protest ( _I’ll just look over the carmot-solution one last time_ ) but one last reprimanding look from Mrs. Flamel sends them to their beds.

After that, there’s not much Credence can do to help with the preparation, so instead he floats trough the gardens. He flies so high into the air that the strong currents threaten to carry him away, not because he enjoys it (quite the opposite) but because it might be for the last time. He wishes he could write a letter. Maybe a letter to Mr. And Mrs. Flamel, to Newt and Albus. It’s almost impossible to imagine how he would be able translate all his gratitude, his hope and fears onto a piece of paper but he would do it for them.

He wishes he could write to Modesty, to apologize, to do something...

 

* * *

 

 

By the time the sun has set and only a few streaks of red and pink touches the sky, Credence has been trapped in the same thoughts for hours. He’s being crushed, strangled by his nightmares, of the things that might happen and what might not happen.

His thoughts are broken when Mrs. Flamel calls for him.

“Come join me, Credence. There is something important I must discuss with you,” she has been sitting on the stone bench beneath the willow tree and smoking on a long pipe for the past hour or so. When Credence settles beside her, she heaves a heavy sigh and looks across her garden shrouded in dusk.

“I do not know, if this will serve to calm you or if it will only make your fear worse-” she pauses to exhale a great cloud of smoke,”- but you of all people need to understand the process you’re committing to. I know we have been secretive about our research and what you must go through, but it was to protect you. Though I can tell you’ve been listening in when the opportunity presented,” she sounds more proud than angry but Credence can’t help but feeling embarrassed at being caught red-handed.

“I have based my design on how humans reproduce. The ancient records I read concerning the creation of a homunculus had mostly the same idea. Just a lot more macabre and very much wrong. Had to go trough a lot of texts where they thought smearing blood on a cows genitals, where a step in the right direction,” she grimaces before continuing. “There are three key components when humans reproduce, you see. There is the sperm from a man, the eggs and the womb of a woman. If the man climaxes under sexual intercourse the mans sperm will - but not always - penetrate and fertilize the woman's ovum. From there a child will grow inside the womb until it’s ready to be born. The process is much more complicated than that, but this is what you need to know to understand my design.“ Credence was both very embarrassed and intrigued by this new information.

“In my design the dragon womb will work as a substitute for a human womb. As dragons are some of the most magical gifted and powerful creatures in the Wizarding world, I’ve theorized that it’ll be environment most likely to nurture you and survive the strain of creating a homunculus. The next step is a substitute for the eggs. Do you remember all those containers I brought with me? The ones containing all those odd sounding elements?” Credence twirls a tendril in confirmation, “Those will be the foundation for your new body and we will use an extract from the Philosophers stone to bring life to it. The extract will not react with common matter and that is why we will need the carmot and sunstone. These two elements are both used  to make the Philosophers Stones, you see. Hopefully they will serve as a catalyst. After that, we’ll feed you drops of blood from the dragon that provided the womb for forty days and night,” Credence can barely wrap his head around what she’s telling him. It all sounds too mystical, too macabre and good to be true.

“Now, it is crucial that you help shape your new body. Even though your body _should_ emerge from your remains, I cannot be certain that it will be in the same image.” she sighs and suddenly she seems to have aged with a thousand years.

“We can only guess what the sunstone and carmot might do to the composition of your body or how this process might impact your very soul. There are too many variable, too many unknown quantities. I would never have gone through with such a rash, volatile design, but we do not have the time. You might be stable now, but for how long?” she looks up into the sky for long moment before whispering, “Whatever happens, I’m truly sorry that this fate befell you,”

The silence stretches out between them until Mrs. Flamel rises, empties her pipe into a nearby flowerbed and looks at him, eyes flint-hard and mouth tight.

“Are you ready?” _no_ , he wants to say. Instead, he flies into the air and twirls around himself.

“I’ll go wake the others then,”

 

* * *

 

“Are you ready, Credence,” Albus stands before him, all traces of humor gone from his face. The room is silent as if they preparing for a funeral. Credence sees his own grim determination reflected in the eyes of those present.

The womb floats before him; huge, pulsating like a deformed heart and just beneath a soft, pink surface, golden veins spreads out like rivers. The magic it emits seems too enormous to be contained in the room and much more primal than anything he has ever sensed before.

The sight is just as revolting as it is humbling.

Besides the womb swirls a vortex of elements, kept apart by magic and ready to combine and grow into a new body. Mr. Flamel stands with the Stone - blood red and glinting in the light - and the extract that will bring life from nothingness.

He floats above the womb now and watches as it opens beneath him, slowly like a bleeding wound would. It looks horrifying; the cold air makes steam rise from within it as a clear liquid is revealed, sloshing around with revolting, wet noises.

He feels numb with fear. But there's harsh resignation there too and a hope burning clear trough him.

"Good luck, Credence. We'll be here, waiting for you," 

  
"If anything happens, we'll do all in out power to stop it," 

  
"See you on the other side, my boy," Albus says and even trough the bleakness of the situation, Credence can see the smile, that endless well of calm that he is allowed to draw from. But still, their words gives Credence courage, so he retreats into himself, as far away from his senses as he can get.

  
And then he falls.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> A John - slang for a man who frequents prostitutes.
> 
> I just had a lot of feelings about Credence and what happened to him in the movie. Grindelwald/Credence is abusive as hell and that bleached pineapple can fuck right off.


End file.
